


Crush

by MilkshakeKate



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Late Night Conversations, Meddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8015155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MilkshakeKate/pseuds/MilkshakeKate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All it takes is a little push in the right direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crush

“You could have crushed me!”  

“Ah,” Napoleon risks tipping her a smile. “But is there any better way to go?”  

“There are plenty of ways I would rather die, Solo.”  

“Indulge me.”  

Gaby scowls hard over her shoulder, taking him in. He tries not to make a habit of rankling her in moving vehicles, but justification is needed. A little absolution, considering the circumstances. 

Illya seems to possess no more life than that of the front seat he's brooding in. Napoleon supposes this is preferable to Illya holding life where he'd choose to spend it: in his hands, strangling him. But Peril seems to have left all his blood lust in the shipping yard, along with the gallons of blood he'd spilled there. Despite being a stickler for a clean and creative exit, Illya hadn't been too comfortable with Napoleon's execution either.   

But what else could be done? Should he have let Gaby's pursuers ram her into the harbour? Certainly Illya would have strangled him for that. Lose, lose. Besides, he'd timed it well enough. Expertly. The shipping container had dropped a generous couple of feet short of Gaby's rear bumper and squarely onto the roof of the Ford behind, flattening it so soundly that there is, truly, no longer a Ford to speak of.   

She _should_ be thanking him.

"Arschloch," she hisses instead, eyes back on the road.   

“Make a left."  

Gaby takes the sharp turn, so sudden that Illya’s hand slaps up to the roof and his foot rams into the foot well. His grousing is barely audible over the abused whines of the gearbox as she wrangles it into a reluctant third.  

“There’s a tunnel up ahead,” Napoleon supplies, rustling the map free of its creases. “Hairpin left about half a mile in, the incline leads up to the pass.”  

“Half a mile.”  

“Point eight kilometres.”  

“ _I know what a mile is!_ ”  

“Then be a lamb and see you don’t miss this one.”  

Gaby looks to Illya and he responds in kind, glaring over the back of the bench seat with a fury only slightly better contained. “You are in no position to speak like this. This is your fault. From the start, your fault.”  

"Trust me, Peril—”  

“No. No more trust today. Shut up.”  

Illya turns his back on him. Gaby doesn’t so much as give him a conciliatory nod, and he doesn’t seem to expect it. Not a single word between them. Perhaps their strange telepathy and occasional grunting is enough for them to bond over their insufferable ward.  

“Well, I apologise—”  

“Shut up,” they say, together.   

The hairpin turn is exquisitely executed, but Solo doesn’t say so. It isn’t his favourite passtime, chasing his partners’ blood pressures, and perhaps it isn’t his most sensible idea after the week they’ve had, but for once they aren’t slicing at each other. Illya isn’t providing critique of her driving, and Gaby isn’t snapping at him to move his knee.   

In fact, with their joint disdain for his actions circling like smoke in the back of the car, Solo senses a small glimmer of progress. And that’s it, his just cause for bothering them. Months of polar cold silence or spitting feuds between them have jeopardised their work and, more importantly, made post-mission drinks nothing short of a horror show. A whole year together has made UNCLE something of an influence to be taken seriously. A _team_ to be taken seriously. Waverly has encouraged him to keep things civil, after a certain slip up in Morocco had lead to Kuryakin sulking and Teller on a rampage, once it became apparent that the three of them would share a room, _even_ after their latest, explosive dispute on the plane to Marrakesh.  

Honestly? Napoleon thinks they ought to have ironed out the creases by now. The inevitable awkwardness of it all is something he’d like to look back on with laughter, if the two are even capable of it. He doubts it. He feels the rift between his partners like a crack in the windscreen; a nuisance at first, irreparable after one too many bumps on the road.   

So for the past few weeks he has undertaken a mission of his own, something of a Human Relations exercise; to pick at them until they crumble, so at last they can stop taking turns to hide behind him whenever they deign to reside in the same city.   

How?   

By uniting them against him.   

These days, it’s their only opportunity to grumble mutually, grimace in tandem.   

He has prodded at the bruises. He has peppered the two of them with suggestion, accusation that their cruelty is overcompensation for the fires elsewhere.  That’s what ruins their reserve the most – insinuation that they’re up to something devious. It's like waking a sleeper agent, the mirror-flip quickness of their behaviour once he's pointed out the teasing, the pigtail pulling. He accuses them, and they soften with one another to deny him the satisfaction. They go out of their way to behave, to treat each other like cool acquaintances, courteous and polite. For a while. Then, when he returns to them after seeing to his own work, or visiting his less permanent partners of the midnight persuasion, it's back to the icy indifference, the distance, the brawls. 

So he  _will_ continue to tease them for it. He’ll gladly play the punching bag if it will have Peril retreat to Gaby’s room to get away from him. Certainly, he’ll take Gaby’s vicious remarks if it will have her conspire with Illya in private, bond over their shared frustration; how they can’t stand him, the American, the flirt, the thief. They’ll nod, confirm their superiority and socialist affinities — comparatively identical, now that Solo's values have unified them against a common enemy — and get on with slapping and ogling each other in bursts, just as they used to.   

Surely there is a cleaner way to inspiring a union than this? They're a broken record, determined not to conclude their odd little cycle. But he needn’t hurt them to have them heal. 

He is tracing Gaby’s neat profile in the reflection of her headlights when he realises with a very fraternal protectiveness that he wants nothing but the best for her. For Illya, too, though he can’t imagine how a future could brighten for him in a measure he deserves. What they need is something to gravitate towards, an end in sight, like two marbles orbiting one another in a bowl only to meet in the middle.  

There is something in Illya and Gaby that is inevitable. Solo knows this because he has never known it for himself; against the shallow base of his romantic encounters, they cast shadows in bas-relief. They’ll stagger into one another whether they like it or not. If he must play director and push them on stage, then so be it.   

Anything for the team.  

Once everybody has calmed down, perhaps forty-five minutes later, Solo decides on a new tactic. True to his track record, it is untried and untested and possibly the stupidest thing he has done tonight. He has a good feeling about it.   

“Gaby.”  

Illya bristles. She breathes a tired sigh. “What is it, Solo.”  

“If you could do anything else, anything but this, what would it be?”  

She studies him for a long while in the rear view mirror. It’s an odd mixture, the sear of her glare and the comfort in knowing he’s seen by her again. Minutely, he is aware of Illya’s own accusatory stare in the wing mirror, dimmed by the night but pale enough to reflect back, ghostly.  

“Feeling ambitious?” She quirks a cruel brow at him. “I am surprised. You so rarely consider more than five minutes in front of you.”  

“Now, now. I’m being serious. Tell me you haven’t thought about it.”  

In the occasional passing of her headlights over the road signs, Gaby’s face glows like a pulse. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he catches her glancing at Illya before her voice steels itself a little, adopting a serrated edge.  

“I would open a garage.”  

“Naturally. Where?”  

Gaby pauses. “Switzerland.”  

“Switzerland.”  

“What, I should go back to Germany?”  

“Gaby, this is solely a hypothetical. You can do anything you want.”  

“Ah.” She nods acidly, something he has never before considered possible. Gaby has mastered it. “You mean: what would I do if you had not chased me out of East Berlin? This sort of fantasy?”  

“I believe the chasing was Peril’s doing,” he says lowly, and dares to look at the man in question. Nothing, not a flicker of acknowledgement. “I merely spread my coat in the gutter for your safe passage.”  

Gaby hums. “We have a very different understanding of that night. Of who saved whom.”  

“Switzerland,” Solo deflects then, sensing a turbulent diversion. The last thing they need is Peril’s guilt complex rupturing in such a confined space. He tilts his head at her instead, genteel. “Zurich?”  

“Bern.”  

“Ah. A bright little suite in Thun.”  

“No. A chalet,” she says bitterly. A lie. She’s ever keen to disprove him. Illya, he notices, has softened a little around the eyes. “But what use is this exercise? Here we are. Things could be worse.”  

“Things could always be worse,” Solo says. “Doesn’t make the present any more idyllic.”  

“Alright, American. What about you?” She flings him another fierce little look that makes the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. “What life is left for the former boxed crook? I suspect: loan shark, art thief. Perhaps, what is it? They steal from galleries, sneak around in the night…”  

“Cat burglar,” Solo supplies first, half-heartedly. Something sickly lingers for the question turned back on him. What would Napoleon Solo do, if he were to pick the handcuffs one last time? He hasn’t thought this one through. Perhaps Gaby is right. He doesn’t tend to think even three minutes ahead, let alone five. He has never really had to. Save for his capture, a freak incident in itself, things have largely fallen into place for him.  

She’s coated in scepticism. “You would steal cats?”  

“No,” Illya offers quietly, German, “They work with the stealth of a cat, typically climbing buildings to steal diamonds, paintings, assets highly prized and protected. They leave without detection.”  

Gaby holds her eye on him a while too long. While Solo awaits her conviction, he finds himself pinching the little blue N.S embroidered low on his shirtfront. There is something slow and strange about she and Illya in their little world. He doesn’t like to discourage it. He lets that successful glimmer shine and shine. He loves his gut feeling. Napoleon Solo loves his instinct, and the theft of these small victories, reckless and car-crushing as they are from time to time.  

“Yes,” she says then, wresting free. “You would be the cat burglar.”  

Napoleon shrugs. The lie slips off his tongue like honey, as it always has, “I was hoping to come clean, live a blameless life in the Italian countryside. Perhaps manage a vineyard.”  

Gaby snorts. Even Illya’s lips quirk at the edges before flattening again. “That may be your best joke yet,” she commends.  

“No less believable than your Swiss garage.”  

“You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the country. Where? Tuscany? You know, all the young bodies move to the city. You will be wooing grandmothers. And there will be nothing to steal there but baskets and pottery.”  

“You’ve got me all wrong, Gaby.”  

“Ah, yes.” She thinks for a moment, nods to herself. “Yes. You, cat burglar, will hide in Italy. Rome. You will pose for a career in antiques, chasing the auctions and exhibitions—”  

“Predictable.”  

“Lots of champagne, handsome men, beautiful women, greased hands. Money.”  

“Surely there’s more to life than that.” Not much more, but he does chase some fillers too. Expensive cars, for example. He’s surprised she has left those out, though in truth he hasn’t been in a car with her alone since Berlin. Always the three of them after that. Perhaps she can’t envision two-seater convertibles after ferrying her team around in little Renaults. He’d steal her a masterpiece of a car if his life of freedom afforded it. “I wouldn’t mind a dip into the pastoral. Where’s the harm in that?”    

Her dark eyes narrow, indulging him. “These games,” she makes a derisive little sound in her throat. “What real life is there for us, Solo? After this?”  

“Us?” he raises a brow. If he’ll ever look back on it, he’ll choose to forget the warmth. “I believed we were chalking up our own fates.”   

Gaby turns her attention to the road, the black and white chevrons demanding that she follow the curve or collide with the rock face. She drops a gear with little finesse, and the car jolts, roars. “Well,” she says, “Each of us, we cannot plan so far in advance. It’s useless to think of it.”  

Illya nods once.  

Napoleon lets that hang in the air for a while before electing to ignore it. “What about you, Peril?”   

Illya continues to stare dispassionately out of the passenger side window. The car tilts with the new camber of the road and his shoulders shift, steadying himself into his usual stance; a matte obelisk, immovable.   

“I think you’d make a fine artist.”  

Illya grunts.  

“A tortured soul,” Solo needles, intent on dancing his way out of the black mood they’ve staggered into. He avoids Gaby’s glare in the rear view mirror. “A photographer, maybe. Barren little apartment in Paris, fleeting infatuations with students. A flighty muse or two.”  

“That’s ridiculous,” Gaby mutters.   

He watches Illya carefully. “He’s certainly keeping up the façade of the bitter artiste. What’s the matter with him?”  

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”  

“What’s the problem, Peril?”  

“Will you stop talking?” Illya bites back. “On and on with your _nonsense_ , useless talk.”  

Solo splays his hands in surrender, slaps them broad on his knees. He sits back and takes in the horrendous postures of his partners, wondering how it is he can be so fond of a landmark and its miniature. How unconditional. Still, he isn’t one to let such pivotal conversations go to rest so easily. He’s doing well. Perhaps just one quick nudge…  

Gaby’s knuckles are white.  

“Hmm,” Napoleon begins.  

Her hands tighten, impossibly. “What is it?”   

“Nothing.” He curls his fingers around the door latch. “I’m sure mother and father will discuss this once the children have gone to bed.”  

Illya’s eyes dart to Gaby’s hand on the gear stick. If he didn't know better, Napoleon might suspect he wants to lay his hand on top to calm her. He knows this because he knows impulse, and he works with it as often as with logic. He knows Peril’s schoolboy urges. He might rebuff his accusations of warmth beneath the ice, but Illya cares for Gaby in his way. The only thing stopping him, Solo thinks, is that if they have spoken of this without him before, Illya wasn’t allowed to touch her.   

There is something suspiciously synchronised about the two of them refusing to play along. Something plotted, choreographed. They hold their tongues like twin riddlers. Like siblings too, they are bonding over a mutual — hopefully temporary — dislike of the foreign cousin they are forced to entertain.  

“This is none of your business,” Illya says for her.  

Gaby’s eyes won’t settle in one place. They’re blinking and hunting for something to land on, almost as if they sting. She swallows, and Napoleon feels it like a lump in his own throat.  

Well, he’s done it now.  

“Forgive me,” he says. “Burning curiosity. Side effect of the work—”   

“Will you please shut up?”  

“Gladly.”  

Illya’s jaw is clamped tight enough to crack, but he won’t move a muscle. The space between the two of them is humming with frigidity. Solo wants to grab their heads and knock them together, see if it dislodges the big wad of pride that repels them.   

They pass a road sign, a flash of luminous white which tells Napoleon they are one hundred and sixty five kilometres from their next drop. Around three hours in this terrain, if Gaby keeps her pace. She doesn’t know the road but she’s quick. No doubt she’ll have them there by sunrise.  

He resigns to lying down along the back seat, resting his head on his folded coat and the edge of Illya’s camera case. Here, the rock of the car becomes a sway, and staring at the pale roof is soothing, welcoming. Perhaps he should shut up more often. If he wasn’t here at all, the two of them could bicker until all they’d have left to fight over would be who can apologise the loudest. Who will take more, who will sacrifice more to find a middle ground that will stop them wrestling over particulars. Napoleon finds it all extraneous to the true task at hand: the two of them wrestling in far fewer clothes, and with a final outcome neither can dismiss as fanciful, useless, unnecessary.   

Lying down has done it. Perhaps he should also stop thinking.   

Compromising, he slips into purer thoughts of wicker baskets, handmade pottery. Cypress trees lining the dusty roads to town. Curling vines and latticed woodwork, crispy ivy, plush grapes, baked stone and plaster. The white sun, the mist settling on a vineyard beneath his villa and his sprawling driveway and his deep, deep blue pool. Lying beside that pool, and in that pool, skin sun-dark, sipping wine older than he is.   

But with who?   

With who?   

His body doesn’t make ripples in the water. His chest is untouched. All of the grapes are rotting on the vines.   

Who else?  

Solo’s eyes pop open. He squints with a deep frown at the car roof. Its odd texture is unsettling after a torn open dream, where everything feels malleable yet altogether too hard.   

Through the window behind Illya is the same slanted mountainside and the occasional net to deter rockfall. He can only have missed fifteen minutes or so.   

It seems fifteen minutes without him is enough. Gaby’s free hand is pushing through the back of Illya’s hair, resting at the nape of his neck.   

They are murmuring.  

Against all his instincts, his wild alarm, Solo closes his eyes to preserve himself.  

“Did you mean it?” Illya says.   

Do they often resort to German when left alone? He daren’t look, but he can almost feel Gaby’s shrug, cashmere sweater dragging over the upholstery of the front bench. Illya is likely staring at the driver’s side with that fearful blue wonderment. It’s one that has only been directed at him once, when Illya had accepted the return of his father’s watch. That token of mercy he’d had no choice but to honour. During their brief truces, he looks at Gaby as if he owes her as much.   

“I think of you with a life in the city,” he confesses.  

“I don’t mind where.” A long, long pause. Napoleon almost chances a peek at them when she speaks up again. “What would you do, Illya?” she starts, and barely lets him take a breath before atoning for it, “If we are still pretending.”  

“Pretending?” Illya gives her a small hum. What has he slept through for Peril to be reduced to this? The sulking has slipped out from under him. He’ll play any game of Gaby’s now. “Russia. Rural and quiet.”  

“And what would you do there?”  

“I am not sure.”  

He has never known Illya to look anywhere but the ground when confessing ignorance. So he dares to watch Gaby’s fingers slip from Illya’s nape to pinch his ear gently. Then she leaves him to drop the gears for another steep bend. Illya finally covers her hand on the stick, a movement noted in the slow shift of his arm. He still refuses to look up from his lap.     

“I think you could be a repairman,” she says, and Illya snorts.   

“KGB special agent does not fix refrigerators. Grease hinges.”  

She shushes him. Solo sinks down into a false sleep, knowing they have remembered him, just in time for Peril to trail over him with that scrupulous stare. He breathes evenly, his face slack.  

“Why do you say this?” Illya goes on, satisfied.  

“You are a perfectionist,” Gaby decides. “You and your gadgets. I imagine you know how to fix all sorts of things.”  

“It is better to fix than to buy another.”  

“You see?”  

“So,” he murmurs. There’s play in him. “How would I do this?”  

“Well,” Gaby says, straightening a little. “You might put an advertisement in the newspaper when you arrive.”  

“Of course. Ex-KGB, willing to enter home for free inspection. No questions.”  

Her voice is lilted with a smirk. “Perhaps I will write the advertisement.”  

Illya quietens. “From Switzerland?”  

The car numbs the road noise very efficiently. It deadens the air. Illya’s voice chops down the near-silence, denying it the right to settle naturally, so Gaby rolls down the window and a brisk mountain air swirls in, smelling of night and bringing with it the hypnotic rumble of the tarmac.  

“Yes,” she says faintly. “From wherever I am to wherever you are, I suppose.”  

“And if I am in Russia?”  

“Well,” she braves. “Then I suppose I am also in Russia.”  

A vast weight shifts over the front seat and Illya’s at her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jaw. Napoleon can’t keep his eyes shut for the sound of it, the strange snap of contact. He’s squinting through the mesh of his lashes to confirm that, yes, Peril definitely has it in him to have UNCLE’s most decorated driver yield under his kiss at the wheel.   

He nearly shouts aloud: all this hard work? All this hard work for what? Right under his nose! What has he missed? This seems so easy for them, without him.  

Illya sighs into her neck, mumbling something in Russian that sends Solo’s brows to his hairline.  

“Illya.” She clears a small sound in her throat. ”Illya, don’t. I’m driving.”  

How many car rides and stake outs and secret little meetings has he forgone? How many hotel rooms?  _Marrakesh!_ Solo startles himself with it. They hadn't rioted for sharing a room with each other, but with _him!_  He's a perfect idiot _._  Twelve months they've worked together, almost to the very day, and he has sailed over it all, let it slide under him because it hadn't fit his neat little prognosis. Illya’s now is a confidence born of withdrawal, of knowing plenty and having it withheld. Ironic, for a soviet. Solo could hit himself. He could hit Illya, for the loss of bonding with him over women, the games, the opportunity to finally get to the bottom of his partner’s perplexing history.  

“What happened to stealth?” Gaby whispers, soft.  

“Hmm. New plan.”  

“Oh?”  

Illya does something that has Gaby nearly swerve off the mountainside. If he could guarantee he’d escape with his life, Napoleon would roll around and warn them of his very open ears.   

And stealth! The cad had been at it all along. All his unwelcome pep talks with Illya; egging him on in the early days, commenting on Gaby’s hemlines to have him take notice, insisting that he be the one to walk her back to her room, pull out her chair, carry her bags, only to be sniffed at and dismissed and told that it is all just so unprofessional, that it would never happen, that he was deluded. All of that ice! It takes every ounce of Solo's training not to let out a groan. Every hour of dedicated silence, surely, can't have been a ruse? Such abstinence, such bitter cold, just to throw him off their scent? To give them free rein to maul at each other's mouths the moment he stepped out of the room?  

All of this without him around?   

He’s graced with a wave of Gaby’s shampoo as Illya threads carefully through her hair. He turns her to look at the road, covering her in a stream of little words he has no business uttering to a struggling beginner.    

“We are only pretending,” she whispers. She sounds dizzy with it nonetheless.  

“I think not.”  

She turns to meet the kisses she can, humming into them, but soon pushes him back into his seat. “Stop that.”  

Through a last kiss, “Mmph.”  

“Be quiet.”  

And with that comes the obedient rearrangement of his jacket, of his long legs back into the foot well. “We are close?”  

She pauses, neatening her hair. “Two hours.”  

A petulant huff from the passenger side. Despite it all, Napoleon smirks.  

“I can’t promise you anything, Illya.”  

Illya sobers, with a quickness that Solo decides should absolve him for failing to catch them sooner. “I know this.”  

“We are pretending.”  

“Yes. I know.”  

They are very quiet for a long while. Napoleon thinks Illya may have actually fallen asleep. He’s partially drifting off himself with conflict warring in his chest — for their deception, for his own superfluity here — when Illya breaks the silence.  

“What will he do?”  

“Whatever he wants,” mutters Gaby. “He’ll be fine.”  

Illya hums. “You will keep an eye on him.”  

“I don’t think I have a choice.”  

“The vineyard.”  

“Lonely.”  

“The city can be lonely also.”  

Gaby says nothing.  

“It will be long time before we must consider all of this,” Illya says.  

“Yes.”  

“You have changed your mind?”  

“Since when?”  

“Since last we spoke of it.”  

“I don’t know.”  

“I will wait,” Illya says, very low, tender. It sits in Napoleon’s stomach like a block, dissolving with time in the dark, something inevitably broken into pieces.   

"I don’t want you to wait."  

"Then I won't."  

Napoleon lets them rest in it. In a way, like finding a present before it could be wrapped for him, he wishes he'd never seen a thing. He catches Illya lifting Gaby's fingers to kiss them, dead silent, and knows he'll never congratulate him on it. He'll never tell them he caught them weeks, months, years before they'd even considered confessing. But won't it be fun to watch them clam up and hiss at each other, sneak around him, and know it's for a union he's wanted all along, and never once a threat to the team he hadn't known he needed as much as he does?  

He blows his cover. They do this to him. The second he stretches his arms up over his head, every warm touch is severed. But still he takes in Gaby's draining blush, and Illya's forced composure, all very luxuriously. He says, lightly, "Just fifteen minutes? Feels like I’ve slept for a year."  

"Shut up.” 

  

**Author's Note:**

> Once Napoleon Solo has a hunch, he won't accept anything that suggests the contrary. Not until it's right under his nose, or a foot and a half in front of him, smooching in the front seat. He's not the surveillance expert for good reason!! I desperately wanted to squeeze in a "I'm a good judge of character, I have great situational awareness" and have Illya and Gaby snort together, maybe while Gaby covertly squeezed Illya's knee which, bc he's _two whole metres tall_ , gets firmly in the way of her gear changes all the damn time. Solo choosing to sit in the back seat is absolutely another element of his master plan. Little did he know, they're happy to indulge his scheming just to have a little blameless proximity :-) sneaky. I'm also The Worst for obscure little chats about Illya and Gaby's future bc... bc... i'm soft for them, and alluding to the idea that they've 100% discussed this privately (and likely between the sheets while thirsty as hell for each other) is my weapon of choice because i'm gross.
> 
> I love napoleon solo with all my heart btw. I think if he were to retire~ he'd sell a couple of the pieces he has _definitely_ hidden away somewhere, buy a pied-de-terre in Italy, somewhere, and saunter about. A little backgammon for pocket money, a little healthy theft for bigger investments, and certainly a boat on the docks just in case he wants to sample delights elsewhere. But with whom!!! whom!! I want my son Solo to have some pals. So I think he'd stay in touch with Illya and Gaby whether they like it or not (they do, they love him in their way) and pay them impromptu visits when he's absolutely least invited. When they've moved in together (neither Russia nor Switzerland, in honest truth), and still haven't told him, he'll poke his head through the kitchen window while they're eating breakfast and wish them bon matin, bon appetit, and add some saffron to their eggs before taking a seat for himself, wait for them to explain themselves. When will she and Illya confess it all to him????!!!! I want to write that!!!
> 
> anyway, as always!!! thank you so much for reading. I've been AWOL due to Real Life Work and writer's block after struggling with this soundscapes thing for millennia. I have about seven WIPs just waiting to be edited, once I can find the courage to face them!! xxx


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